The Bride of Willow Creek(89)
Anger, sudden and hot, tightened his chest. “Let’s see. You want to sell everything we own, live in a tent, dig my claim, and sell noodles. And me? I guess I’ll buy a hammock and take naps until my wife has scratched up the money we need, because I can’t. Is that how you see it?”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I can do this, Angie. I can pay for Daisy’s operation, and I will.”
She drew a deep breath, audibly striving for patience. “Why are you angry? I just want to help.”
The anger rushed out of him as quickly as it had come and he dragged a hand down his face. “You help most by doing what you’re doing. By taking care of Lucy and Daisy so I don’t have to worry and I have time to work on the L&D. By being here. By listening.”
That’s what he’d missed the most during his recent foolishness. These quiet talks at the end of the day. The nearness of her, the scent of her. The occasional accidental touches.
“Every time I look at the girls, I wonder if we’ll still have them after October first.” When he said nothing, she asked, “Are you going to borrow the money for Daisy’s operation?”
“Assuming anyone would be foolhardy enough to lend money to an out-of-work contractor, how would I repay the loan? It could take years.” He stared into the darkness. “And it would feel like a cheat. Borrowing the money is not an acceptable solution.”
“Then tell me what is acceptable. Sam, please, I’m worried sick.”
Discouragement weighed him down. The simple act of standing sapped his energy. “I don’t want to talk about plans tonight,” he said wearily. “I’d feel like a fool to lay out a plan that I hope and pray will net a few thousand dollars after we’ve just heard Can and Molly’s good news about hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Sam, I don’t—”
“Can’s been digging for his jackpot for years. He’s worked hard; he never stopped believing. He and Molly deserve a wonderful future.”
“But you wish it had been you,” she added softly.
“I don’t begrudge Can and Molly their jackpot. I just wish I could find mine, too.” Pushing his hands deep in his pockets, he lowered his head and walked toward the entrance to his tent. “Goodnight, Angie.”
Scowling toward the beckoning lights of town, he considered going back to the Gold Slipper and drowning his mood in a few mugs of beer. But he wasn’t a man to brood over his troubles in public. Instead, he turned his face toward the lamp that Angie had set in the kitchen sink in case Daisy awoke and needed the reassurance of light in the darkness. After a few minutes, he sighed, then threw back the flap of his tent and walked inside.
Damned if the tent wasn’t starting to feel like home.
Slowly, Angie pulled the brush through her hair, studying herself in the mirror. She looked as disheartened as Sam.
Like him, she didn’t resent Can and Molly’s good fortune. But it was hard not to want some of that good fortune for Sam and herself. Since she had arrived in Willow Creek at least a dozen men had celebrated a sudden rise to wealth. Such rewards could happen. So why didn’t it happen to Sam?
If she was feeling this low and discouraged, what must he be feeling? Lowering the hairbrush, she tapped it absently against her palm.
Sam knew the men who had become instant millionaires, and he was always happy for them. There wasn’t an envious bone in his body, Angie knew that. Sam’s low mood after another man’s good news wasn’t based on resentment or rancor; he was just impatient, just wanted his turn to come.
Her gaze dropped to the top of the bureau and Peter’s most recent letter. Peter was also an impatient man. Angie sighed again and tossed the hairbrush aside.
Peter was becoming annoyingly insistent. The letter on the bureau contained a well-reasoned argument in favor of her returning to Chicago immediately.
They no longer wrote of mutual acquaintances or items of common interest. Peter’s letters had assumed an exasperated and imperious air, almost ordering her back to Chicago. This approach triggered Angie’s independence and her Italian temper. Her responses had become short and clipped and repeated her oft-stated position with increasing annoyance.
A tiny suspicion had begun to form that the future was not as cut-and-dried as she had hoped. She tossed Peter’s letter back on top of the bureau to answer tomorrow. If Peter truly cared for her, why couldn’t he be patient? Or maybe she was being unfair.
An inner voice reminded her that not that long ago she had felt wild with resentment that she had to wait to begin her life with Peter. Now delaying a life with him for a year or two seemed reasonable, perhaps prudent.